


Hold Your Ground

by machka



Series: Anodyne [4]
Category: Bandom: Axium, Bandom: MWK, Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-18
Updated: 2008-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machka/pseuds/machka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All you can think is that Jeff needs to hear this kid sing...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Your Ground

**Author's Note:**

> As one friendship deepens, another feels threatened.
> 
> Written for prompt #13 on my Random 30 Prompt Table of Doom: _Hold_
> 
> Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. The events described therein are not intended to represent actual events. No libel or defamation is intended in posting said fictitious work.
> 
> In other words, it's not real, because I made it all up.

"Hey Andy, it's Dave... listen, man; I'm coming down this weekend again, but it'll just be me this time... Uh, do y'know of any cheap hotels in walking distance, 'cause my ass is flat broke? Heh heh... So, uh... anyway... um... I've, uh, got this song I want to show you...? Been, ah, working on it for a while, and I'd kinda like to hear what you think...? Um. That's about it, man. Call me, a'ight? Later!"

"Dave, man, it's Andy. Hey, aren't you supposed to be in college? Don't you have, like, studying to do, or something? Ha ha, I'm just kidding. Anyway, Neal says you can stay with him at Bryan's place if you don't mind the couch -- lemme know if that's okay, and I'll pass the word back to him... Oh, and just so you know? I can't _wait_ to hear your song. I've been bustin' my ass for you on that stage for a month now -- 'bout time you did a little somethin'-somethin' for me, don't you think? ...I'm not kidding about that part. Anyway, I'll see you soon. Bye!"

\----------

You find yourself perched precariously on the edge of the lumpiest, rattiest couch you've ever seen, balancing a bottle of liquid courage on your knee. You take another swig, and wait for your nerves to dissolve.

Neal is studying you from under his bangs, a bemused expression on his face. He obviously senses how important this is to you right here - how important it is, for whatever reason, that you get Andy's approval - and it's apparently the funniest thing he's ever seen.

Ignoring him isn't easy, but it's really your only option. That, or freak out completely, and that's...no.

More beer. Yeah. That's it.

You glance over at Andy, who is reclined next to you with feet propped on the coffee table, scrutinizing the sheet music and humming the melody under his breath. You watch his eyebrows draw together and down, and you inhale a little too sharply.

Andy doesn't appear to notice, but you hear a faint snort of laughter from Neal's corner of the room as your face flushes a vibrant and rather unflattering shade of scarlet.

Bending over, you fumble with the catches on your guitar case, withdrawing your acoustic and tucking it under your arm. You pluck the strings carefully, fiddling with the pegs to tune it, and shoot several sidelong glances at your companion, who is now tapping the beat on his thigh and mouthing the lyrics to himself: "Always believe that there's a way back home..."

He catches the last look you throw him, and lowers the sheet music with a smile.

"Well?" You hate the uncertainty in your voice, and clear your throat nervously. "What do you think...?"

"Interesting," he murmurs. "I think I'll form a firmer opinion when I hear it, though..." He cocks his head persuasively, and Neal grunts in agreement.

Bowing your head, you close your eyes and picture Jeff sitting next to you, counting off the beats, and you fill the small room with a progression of chords.

This is what you love, and it shows in the smile playing around your lips.

"The lyrics, Dave," Andy prompts you softly. "What about the lyrics?"

See, now -- that's a different story. Andy's voice is so pure, so light, so flawless...and yours just doesn't measure up. But he wants you to sing, wants to _hear_ you sing, so...yeah.

You start the first verse muted and low, singing into the floor, slurring the phrasing and practically swallowing the lyric in your self-consciousness. Andy makes a soft sound of encouragement, and you raise your head and open your eyes, lifting your gaze to his face. He smiles that smile for you; and for him, you sing your damn heart out.

"Good, Dave," he murmurs. "The chorus, Dave - sing it again..."

You do, and he shoots a glance over at Neal, who is frowning thoughtfully at the floor, fingering lines of melody on his thigh.

"Neal?" he prompts, and immediately Neal is humming in harmony, enriching the sound swelling around you.

"Good..." Andy is whispering, leaning toward you, holding your gaze. "And again..."

And then he's opening his mouth to sing your words, and God _damn_ it if he doesn't sing them better than you did, and it's fucking _perfect_ and all you can think is that Jeff needs to hear this kid _sing,_ and it's all you can do to keep playing, to keep going, to choke back the tears and keep from crying...

He's perfect. Just fucking _perfect._

\----------

The crowd is amped tonight, and you're feeding off their energy. It's Senior Week, it's the last day of finals, and the floor is teeming with impending graduates in their last-fling moments before growing up...or throwing up, as some of them are doing, but hey, last flings and all...

Another pretty, empty-headed girl weaves her way forward, batting her eyes ridiculously as she places yet another glass of yet-another mixed drink on the lip of the stage at your feet. You wink extravagantly in acknowledgment without dropping the lyric, and she smothers drunken giggles behind her hand as her friends jump up and down beside her, squealing with glee.

You duck your head and glance over at Jeff, raising an exaggerated eyebrow. He responds with an elaborate eyeroll and shakes his head as he bursts into laughter.

You lose it a split second later, and have to turn away, struggling to regain your composure. You end up facing Bobby, who's tilting his head and giving you this _look_. "Boy, you gonna get laid tonight," he mouths, accentuating his words with cymbal crashes, and you're off again, dissolving into a fit of helpless giggles as you flub your next half-dozen chords and fight for breath.

Jeff and Jerron are trading looks and shaking their heads at each other across the stage, but they're both smiling; and the crowd's as drunk as you are, so they don't seem to mind, and when you finally find your breath and the lyric again, and stagger back to the mike, they're right back behind you like nothing was wrong.

God, _fuck_ the graphic arts -- you never want to do anything else but _this_ for the rest of your life.

The song ends in a crash of cymbals and massive feedback from the amp, and you take the opportunity to snatch up the drink, shooting another wink and your sexiest smile at the girl, which sets her and her friends off again. Laughing, you toss back half of it and straighten up, turning away with a shrug as Jeff switches guitars for the next song on the setlist: "Hold."

Suddenly serious, you fish in your pocket for your cellphone, and squint at the screen in disappointment.

You've left Andy two voice-mails and at least four text messages about this weekend's shows and the studio time Jeff had booked and why you can't come down, and he hasn't responded. You get that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you're sure you've been too pushy, too needy, too _you_ for him, and you're probably creeping him the fuck out being all stalkery and shit, and even you don't blame him for not calling you back...

You have never felt more like crying.

Well, except for that one time, you know, when you played him this song...

Well, aren't you just in the perfect mood for it now...

Jeff begins picking out the intro, vamping with Jerron and Bobby until you get your shit together. Giving yourself a shake, you stuff the phone back in your pocket, slam back the rest of the drink, and turn back to the crowd, clutching the neck of your guitar like a lifeline.

The crowd bounces to life around you as you punch into the chorus, and you lose track of individuals in the shifting human sea... It's better that way, because then you won't be looking for him where he's not.

Except -- he is.

You blink and shake your head as you scream through the second verse and thrash into the second chorus, and the crowd fissures and shifts and recombines yet again. You think you see something, and then you don't, it's that simple...

You close your eyes and listen to Jeff's lead cutting through the air -- the melodic line that Neal had played for you after the Kings' show that night, the one that you'd brought home to Jeff and played for him...

One final heave and eruption of the crowd, and you wrench your eyes open for the song's close to find him singing back at you from the front row.

Hitting the final chorus, you shove your guitar behind you, grab the mike from its stand, and drop to your knees at the edge of the stage. Locking your eyes on his, you beckon him closer and hold out the mike.

Even the shrieks of the women surrounding you can't drown out the soaring perfection of his voice, meshing with yours. Even now, the words fail you, and you're reduced to bits and pieces of the lyric as his eyes bore into yours, your foreheads nearly touching, breathing each other's breaths...

The music slows, draws back into itself, and the spell is broken as the crowd loses its collective shit around you. He smiles, and Neal steps out from behind him, sporting the biggest shit-eating grin you've ever seen him wear, like he knows your innermost secrets and is holding them against you...

Quite possibly, he does and he is, but it's not like your heart wasn't out on your sleeve the entire time, for Christ's sake.

Andy grips your hand tightly and gives it a shake, drawing your attention back. "Later," he mouths, and jerks his head back toward the crowd.

You squeeze back and jump to your feet, pointing down at him dramatically. "M'buddy, Andy Skib, folks - show 'im some love!" you proclaim, your voice much rougher than you'd expected. "Sings for th' Midwest Kings outta Tulsa -- check 'em out if y'ever getta chance, seriously..."

The crowd obliges you, and Andy and Neal get swallowed up by it, waving their appreciation as they push back toward the bar. You watch them go for a moment on unsteady legs, and then turn back to your band, searching for the dregs of the last drink you'd had.

Jeff is staring at you with a "what the fuck?" look plastered across his face, and Bobby is studying his drumkit rather intently, and Jerron -- well, nothing much seems to faze Jerron, so his expression is impassive, which suits you just fine.

You shrug as eloquently as possible. "What?"

Jeff's eyes narrow.

Oh, it's gonna be a long night.

\----------

"Damn it, Andy, what're y'doin' here?"

"Neal has this amazing invention called an 'au-to-mo-bile'...It's apparently used to transport persons and goods over long distances..."

"Oh my _God,_ shut up. Y'know what I meant! How'd y'know where we were playing? I never told..."

"Lemme tell you about this thing called the 'Internet,' Dave. You should see it sometime -- there's these things called 'search engines' now, that do amazing shit like 'look up information' and 'find things for you'..."

"You little fucker..."

"Hey! Don't fucking _throw_ things at me, man -- I'm just messing with ya! We went to Axium's website, duh -- everything's right there, y'know, and then we just looked up the directions on a map...OW!! Come on, man, stop it..."

"An' y'never called me back, y'asshole! Y'could've warned me..."

"Dave, we wanted to _surprise_ you. _Calling_ you would've defeated the purpose!" A pause. "...Aren't you happy to see us?"

"...Yeah. It's just...I didn't think...I mean, y'barely _know_ me..."

"And you barely know _us,_ but that doesn't stop your ugly ass from driving down to Tulsa every fuckin' weekend..."

"Neal? Shut the fuck up, seriously. It's not even funny, I swear... David. We're friends, right?"

"...Yeah...?"

"...Then what's the problem?"

You think back to Jeff's _look,_ and wonder just how in the Hell you're ever going to explain this -- or any of it, really -- to him, but then Andy turns the full force of his hangdog puppy-eyed expression on you, and your heart is stuttering in your chest.

"...Nothin.' I, uh...I'm just a little worn out from the show, I guess..."

"Well, you sounded amazing up there, y'know?" He watches you shake your head in disbelief and blush for, like, the six-hundredth time in the month you've known each other, and smiles. "What's there to be embarrassed about?"

You bow your head and rub the back of your neck, smiling weakly. God, if only he knew...

"So," he prods gently, "Are you done for tonight?"

You tip your head inquisitively. "...Yes...?"

"Great! So, you can show us around!" He links an arm with yours, smiling up into your face as he pulls you toward the door. "Let's start with dinner -- I'm fucking starved."

Bringing up the rear behind you, Neal is laughing his fucking ass off.

You refuse to give any of it a second thought.

\----------

You've already been at the recording studio for an hour before the rest of the band shows up, but you haven't been waiting alone.

Neal's in a booth with his guitar running through your amp, and he's whipping his hair around like James Hetfield on crank, ripping off some ridiculously complicated riffs he claims he wants to work into "Godspeed" live -- but you think he's just being a show-off.

You and Andy are in the control room with your feet propped up on the soundboard, playing a highly competitive and increasingly sloppy game of house-rules Mexican, which you're pretty sure you're losing -- badly.

Secretly, you're pretty sure you're losing on purpose...but not-so-secretly, you're blaming it on beginner's luck.

Andy's smile says he's on to you, but you grin happily back as the empties pile up around you, because you just don't give a fuck.

Andy has just delivered the punchline to the most obscene joke you've ever heard in your life (Neal, from the booth: "Not funny, Andy..."), and you throw your head back, howling with laughter until you're breathless and teary-eyed and your jaw and sides literally _ache._ And every time you think you're finished, you take just one look at Andy's dead-pan expression or his arched eyebrow or his primly-drawn lips or his widened eyes and you are laughing so fucking hard again that you've apparently lost the ability to make sound in the range of human hearing.

Neal stares at you for a long moment, and then just shakes his head and tears into another blazing guitar lick.

Subsiding to wheezing, keening giggles, you wipe the tears from your scrunched-up eyes with your knuckles and cover your face with your hand, and that's when Jeff clears his throat.

"Are we interrupting something?"

"Shit!" You startle hard enough to flail, and it's Andy's peals of laughter filling the room as you scrabble to catch the beer bottles before they hit the floor. Cursing your Irish ancestry with your cheeks ablaze, you kick him hard in the shin and jump to your feet.

"Sorry, guys -- we're just hangin' out, waitin' on you," you reply sheepishly. "Showin' the guys where we record..." Your voice trails off as Jeff looks pointedly from Andy to Neal and back to you.

It occurs to you, finally, that since you disappeared with Andy and Neal immediately after the show last night without a word to anyone, none of them have been properly introduced...and that your bandmates might just be a little pissed off at you right now. Although you don't think it will reduce the tension that seems to be polluting the room, you figure it's only polite, and your mother raised you with manners -- some of which you actually remember from time to time.

"Jeff Shrout, Bobby Kerr, Jerron Nichols...Andy Skib and Neal Tiemann..."

Bobby and Jerron each nod in turn, and Andy nods back, wearing that soft, friendly smile that comes to him so easily.

Neal's slipped off his guitar, standing it on its end, crossing his hands atop its head. He's the absolute embodiment of rocker attitude as he tilts his head, hair sliding off to the side as he studies your bandmates down his nose with a look of frank disdain.

And now you're a bit alarmed at the clenching of Jeff's jaw, the stiff set of his shoulders, and the way his lips have pulled into a thin and narrow line.

"You're that _kid_ who sang with Dave last night," he states flatly, his voice twisting the diminutive nastily, staring through Andy with narrowed, glittering eyes. Andy shrugs slightly and settles back into his chair, and you're amazed he can be so relaxed when Jeff's body language is absolutely _screaming_ at you...

"And you," Jeff continues, locking eyes with Neal through the glass, "You think you're pretty shit-hot with that guitar, huh."

You hear yourself groan, because you just _knew_ this was a bad idea, but somehow you'd managed to talk yourself into it anyway... Stupid fucking conscience and its inability to withstand the onslaught of a simple six-pack of beers...

"I don't _think,_ " Neal replies tersely. "I _know._ "

 _Jesus, fuck!_ You collapse back into your chair and slide down in the seat, burying your face in your hands.

Jeff and Neal stare each other down appraisingly for several long moments, and you can feel the beginnings of the world's most massive headache start to hammer at your temples, and you just _know_ you're gonna throw up right then and there...

"Is the rest of your shit band as good as you two?" Jeff snaps, and you swear to God you think your heart just stopped.

"Oh, yeah," Andy drawls back confidently, and just like that, the tension in the room dissipates.

The residual tension in your spine, however, will require liberal application of malt beverages to dissolve.

Thank God Neal brought the big cooler.


End file.
